


Send in the Clones

by Hippediva



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Sith Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:31:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AUTHORS:  IvyBlue (Ivyblue@celticweb.com) & Briony (Hippediva@aol.com)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Send in the Clones

DISCLAIMERS: Maul and Obi are George's, My Apprentice is Siubhan's...hell,  
there isn't an original character here. All those who own them have the  
credit. We just had the fun. (Besides, a list of tedious legalities would  
bore the pants off you and spoil the story.) Special thanks to Virginia  
Henley's romance novels for providing us with a truly appalling band name.  
This was the result of too many drunken nights viewing Shallow Grave and  
reading SA.

kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

 

"So, yeah, um, the band is called Manroot, and we're not really playing out  
at the moment because we just lost our drummer." Maul paused to gauge how  
his potential new flatmates were taking the news before plunging on with the  
really embarrassing information. "See, our drummer, like, exploded. And  
now, we've got this lawsuit pending from Spinal Tap, and it's really screwing  
with our creative vibe..."

A voice hollered from somewhere above him. "What about corporate buyouts?  
And did they have the exploding drummer bit trademarked?"

Alex glanced up at the ceiling, carefully avoiding the drift of plaster dust  
that filtered lazily down in a shaft of sunlight. "Never mind him. He  
crawls around up there all day, but we're pretty sure he's harmless."

Juliet smiled at Maul. "So, this boyfriend you don't have, will he or will  
he not be stopping by to visit you at all hours?"

Maul scowled. "He's not my boyfriend!! Anyway, I don't know. I'm, like,  
really busy with the band."

Alex grinned at him. "You know, I play drums."

"Oh wow, man, that is, like, so karmic." Maul felt sick to his stomach. He  
was beginning to sound just like that aging hippy freak of a Jedi Master. He  
made a mental note to lay off the yogurt and tofu burgers. Must have had  
something to do with that special course his Master Sidious had forced him to  
take at Berkeley. He'd even had to buy a pair of Birkenstocks for the three  
months of torturous philosophical drivel. They made his feet look enormous,  
but at least they didn't hurt like those stupid boots that gave him bunions.

"Well," Alex smirked. "What makes you want to room here?"

Maul twisted his face into a truly terrifying display of rotting teeth and  
gleaming yellow eyes. "I want to burn it down. By the way, there was this  
complete idiot loitering on the stairs. I had to slice him in half to get  
here."

"Who, Campbell?" Alex asked.

"Cameron." Juliet corrected.

"Cameron? Really?" Alex shrugged. "I like that guy but why does he have to  
keep following us?"

"Anyway, " Maul continued. "I have to do remedial Highland studies on kilts  
and stupid Scots' tricks so I have to stay here in Edinburgh. Besides, the  
band's got a gig at the Games next week. You know, the ones some local actor  
is hosting. I hear he looks good in a kilt." Maul bit back a ravenous  
mental image of his non-boyfriend, Obi-Wan Kenobi, in a kilt. When he  
stopped drooling, he looked questioningly at Alex. The guy looked really  
familiar.

Alex looked at Juliet then back at Maul.

"Ok, the room is yours."

Maul grinned. "Great!!! Can I paint it black?"

Juliet shrugged. "Why not? It couldn't possibly clash with all the rest of  
the horrible paint job around here."

David shouted from up in the loft. "I thought you LIKED the colours. They  
were all on special at the DIY!"

Alex rolled his eyes. "Shut up, David. Go drill something."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several days and several trips back and forth from the local bus stop, his  
lame-ass speeder loaded down with boxes, and Maul was set. The room was too  
clean and devoid of sentient lifeforms bred by years of Pizza the Hut  
deliveries, but he could change that quickly enough. He tripped over pieces  
of Cameron on the stairs, stubbing his toe (which was exposed because he was  
wearing the purple Birkenstocks), making him drop the box with his  
Playstation II and all of his Jedi Roadkill games.

Moving was quickly honing his rage to a fine peak.

His irritation was raised to a magnificent level of rodent-hating,  
Jedi-slicing, gibbering, spitting fury later that evening. The band came  
over to practise for their upcoming gig.

Maul helped to set up the equipment with the Eye, their sound guy and  
all-around roadie. He was a basket case who couldn't put three words  
together and no one seemed to have any idea who in hell he was, but he was a  
wizard with electronics.

Billy, their shy and dimwitted keyboard player, arrived by cherry-picker,  
just in time to collide with the lead singer, Curt Wild, who promptly kicked  
his ass into the next room before passing out in a corner.

Billy gently coaxed his pigeons into three neat lines to form the  
Pidge-phone. It was a kinder and gentler Pidge-phone than the one Maul had  
originally concocted. That one had been fun, Maul thought, mentally  
relishing the memories of squashed pigeon and startled coos erupting into  
avian shrieks for mercy as he battered them with a mallet. But there was  
something funny about that Dwayne, the way he kept waving his wing around and  
somehow getting Maul to keep the birdseed container full.

"Alright then, who's got the fucking lyric book?" Curt mumbled from his  
corner, fixing a bleary eye on Maul.

"Right, um, I think it's in one of my boxes," Maul muttered, turning to stomp  
toward his room. Ten minutes later he emerged, grimy and irritated, sporting  
a number of paper cuts but with no book in hand. "I can't find it," he  
reported.

Juliet was just exiting the kitchen. "Are you looking for kind of a  
scrollish-looking thing? Kind of rough paper, with calligraphy and crayon  
markings all over it?" Maul nodded mutely. "I saw David carrying something  
like that out of your room and into the loft. I think he wanted to use it to  
cover one of the windows."

Maul growled and headed up the ladder to the loft. He grabbed the lyric book  
and bared his teeth at David,narrowly escaping the hammer and buzzing drill.  
David was his favourite flatmate.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Curt was leaning heavily on the mike stand, eyes  
beginning to glaze over. Billy tapped his baton and ran the pigeons through  
a few scales. A gigantic squawk of feedback echoed through the flat, sending  
the pigeons into frenzied flight.

"Um, sorry" mumbled the Eye, adjusting the sound levels.

The front door opened to admit Andy, still sooty and grimy from the colliery.  
"Sorry I'm late. I lost my horn in a pool game. I'll have to whistle."

Maul wondered if Andy had a real horn, or if he even knew how to play it. He  
shrugged. Not that it mattered: Andy whistled really good.

Nick Leeson, their tour manager, showed up with songwriter Christian in tow.  
Christian, of course, was bound and gagged, as usual. It was the only way to  
keep him quiet. Otherwise, he drove them all nuts with his eternal  
mumbo-jumbo about truth and beauty etc., ad nauseum. He did come up with  
some good lyrics, but it was a pain in the ass to have to knock him cold  
every so often when he went off on another "Love" tear.

Finally, Robert showed up, his hair perfectly awful in that stupid feathered  
shag haircut he insisted on wearing. He tuned up the Electrolux by it  
hitting several times with a dry mop.

"So when's the gig?" Alex queried loudly, wandering out from his bedroom as  
the band began to produce sounds somewhat akin to large metal pipes being  
flung into a gravel-and-rubber-duck-filled flat bed truck from a great  
height. Curt howled incoherently into the microphone, deafening the Eye, who  
pulled off his headphones and began mumbling something about his daughter.

"About a week," Maul replied, cursing as a string snapped on his bass and  
recoiled with almost-sentient intent, wrapping wickedly around one of his  
horns.

"You'll be needing a drummer then," Alex announced. "Shall I set up my kit?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the All-Scotland Daily News-With-Nudie-Pictures-on-Page-3, dated August  
21, 2001:

"There has never been a spectacle quite like it in the entire history of the  
Crieff Highland Games. In a culture where soccer riots are considered an  
acceptable form of public expression, Manroot's damaging performance and the  
ensuing mayhem managed to break all existing records for police activity and  
general hooliganism. Scheduled between the Junior Step-Dancing Exhibition  
and the Women's Caber-Toss Finals, Manroot's performance, if we may indeed  
call it such, sent the crowd into a frenzy that called a halt to this year's  
edition of the venerable Games. The honorary chieftain, a local actor, was  
hospitalised with injuries received during the riot. The whereabouts of his  
kilt remain unknown at this time.

Taking the stage amidst an oasis of potted plants, courtesy of the cut-rate  
gardening firm of LaRousse &amp; Chrome, the band launched immediately into its  
signature tune, "Wanker", highlighted by a seven-minute bass solo. Said  
solo, performed by a Birkenstock-shod Zabrakian (this information still not  
confirmed at press time), may have been the incident that sparked the wave of  
violence in the already keyed-up and beer-sodden crowd. The set quickly  
degenerated into a bout of gut-wrenching yowling from lead singer and former  
glam-rock star Curt Wild, punctuated by frequent disappearances and the  
sounds of various bodily functions being performed within an ersatz grove of  
tree ferns. The bass player was seen smashing the odd array of pigeons on a  
triangle shaped platform, sending feathers and squawking birds into the  
unruly crowd. The jumpsuit-clad mute responsible for the pigeons promptly  
cowered behind a date-palm in a state of catatonic terror.

Worse still was the incessant whistling of a grimy coalminer whose purpose  
onstage was unclear. Equally puzzling was the badly-coiffed vacuum cleaner  
operator attempting to murder his machine with the help of a mop and several  
sponges. As the saner members of the crowd sought to flee the venue,  
creating a killing ground near the exits, a very skinny and undoubtedly  
chemically-unbalanced audience member leapt onstage. He and the notorious  
lead singer disappeared once more behind the plants, clutching syringes and  
large packages of illegal contraband. A striped cat jumped centre stage  
from one of the rubber trees, caterwauling in accompaniment of the bagpipe  
player, who was wearing all earth-tones. The bass player insisted that the  
fetchingly-kilted piper was not his boyfriend. The cat evidently disagreed,  
judging from her screeched, "Deniiiiaaal!". Or she may have been attempting  
to cover Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Whatever the case, it was, in a  
word, disastrous.

Bootleg tee-shirts were reportedly hawked to the police vans by a pair of  
disreputable-looking hamsters, also in strange earth-toned clothing. One was  
seen waving its paw in a suspicious manner, allegedly provoking a duel with  
an aggressive pigeon. As the cat attacked the pigeon and the hamsters  
skirmished with the cat, the entire stage collapsed apocalyptically under the  
weight of the plants.

When reached for comment later that night at his office in the local morgue,  
the band's lawyer, known only as "Martin", refused to answer questions  
regarding lawsuits arising from the performance. He did, however, mention  
that proceeds from the sale of any surviving potted plants would be used to  
defray the band's mounting legal expenses."


End file.
